


Words like arrows

by acrosspontneuf (FangedAngel)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Break Up, F/M, POV Solas (Dragon Age), Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:02:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22179010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FangedAngel/pseuds/acrosspontneuf
Summary: At times, something interesting flashes across her face, glimmers of expression that are almost intriguing. They appear most frequently after Kilastra has closed a rift, her magic singing so loudly in the wake of battle and that electric green reflected in her eyes. There is something other about her in those moments, something that defies the dullness of her humanity, but it is always gone by the time he can study it properly.
Relationships: Solas/Female Trevelyan
Comments: 16
Kudos: 23





	1. Unremarkable

**Author's Note:**

> Patron reward for the amazing [tragicamente](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tragicamente/works) featuring her amazing OC Kilastra Trevelyan.  
> A word of warning that Solas is not being very endearing (extreme cockiness, internalised racism, etc) in this, especially at the beginning - this is all written from his perspective. The usual rambliness of stream of consciousness applies. This is also Solas falling for Kilastra but the endgame for her canon is being with Cullen. There will be a lot of Feels. Rating will increase.

When they bring the prisoner in, there is nothing remarkable about her. She is unconscious and shivering, the mark on her hand bursting in flashes of green, like the power she’s stolen is rebelling against her. Solas knows that she will not survive, so he spares her very little thought until he hears the hum of her magic change, her breathing easing as the mark grows quiet. She is no one, but the power drawn across her hand accepts her. For now, she must survive. For now, he must ensure it.

*

Solas watches Kilastra Trevelyan stumbling through the motions during her first weeks in Haven and continues to find little of note. She wears a Dalish braid in her hair; she is the offspring of nobility, cast out of a comfortable life and into the limitations of a Circle; she is a strong mage, for a human, but nothing extraordinary. Solas sees nothing that explains her survival, and even less that explains why she is able to wield the mark.

He watches her, and all he sees is a young and naive human who doesn’t even have the courtesy to be aware of what she’s done. He watches her, and all he sees is the Dalish braid. Solas had overheard the story of this Trevelyan girl travelling with a Dalish clan for some months and had remained less than impressed. That, at least, is par for the course: the Dalish have always been attracted by insignificant things.

He watches the worry on her face when she is speaking to the Seeker and the limitation of her perspective would be amusing if it were not so very irritating. None of them understand what is at stake while he is forced to be a spectator to their ineptitude. He watches, but when she looks towards him, Solas averts his gaze.

*

At times, something interesting flashes across her face, glimmers of expression that are almost intriguing. They appear most frequently after Kilastra has closed a rift, her magic singing so loudly in the wake of battle and that electric green reflected in her eyes. There is something other about her in those moments, something that defies the dullness of her humanity, but it is always gone by the time he can study it properly.

To his mild surprise, Kilastra had been more than willing to set out into the Hinterlands to search for the artifact he wishes to study. They have been travelling for days now and she is still keenly excited at the prospect, talking to Solas about how such things interact with the Veil. To his moderate surprise, he does not tire of her enthusiasm on the matter.

The Seeker and the dwarf are also accompanying them, but they keep their thoughts to themselves. Solas knows everything about them that he wishes to know because they are easy to know. Kilastra, however, defies his understanding and it makes him feel uncertain. It is not a feeling he enjoys.

When Kilastra gets into a heated discussion with the Seeker on the subject of Circles, Solas sees another intriguing expression cross her face, something that hints at an unwillingness to kneel, at a defiance of rules. It is a spark that he would almost like to see light up, but his interest in it fades away like the embers of the discussion. There is silence in the camp that night, and he seems to be the only one not to mind it.

*

Fog rises in the forest as they make their way back to Haven. Solas listens to the sounds of the trees and the halting footsteps of his party and wonders at the transience of it all. Finding the artifact has unsettled him and he cannot pinpoint why, but he believes it must be to do with encountering that young elf lurking outside the cave. The truth of his identity must have flickered on his face while speaking to her, and surely no one has noticed but he keeps his counsel until fog is replaced by snow where winter continues to hold court in the mountains.

Kilastra sits by him in camp that night, and he does not allow his face to show his disdain but he feels it nevertheless.

‘Herald,’ he says, and hopes she can feel exactly what he thinks of her hollow title.

‘Solas,’ she replies, tone neutrally polite. ‘Would you tell me of your explorations of the Fade?’

Her request is so far from what he expected that he turns to look at her. Firelight catches the golden tones in her hair and in her eyes, and there is a smattering of freckles across her cheeks. These are not details he has noticed before.

‘Why do you wish to know?’ he asks, knowing that it doesn’t matter. He seldom has the chance to recount his travels, but her interest is written all over her face.

‘I’ve always wanted to know more about it. I can’t control my own interaction with it, but I would love to hear what can be found there. If you’d like.’

The latter is thrown in as a courtesy and he knows it, but in this he doesn’t begrudge her tone. Solas hasn’t noticed her need for knowledge before and it seems to have been an oversight. It makes her almost interesting for longer than a moment. He tells her, but carefully chooses his words and keeps the stories as neutral as possible. She has been trained to be wary of the Fade and he needs to tread carefully, especially within earshot of the Seeker.

Kilastra does not seem wary. She asks question after question and Solas answers. By the time they stop talking, the fire has turned to embers but he can still see the glow in her eyes. For a moment, it matches his own.

*

In Haven, Kilastra seeks him out. Solas unravels more stories for her and finds himself preparing them well in advance of her visits. He doesn’t question it. Her interest in the Fade is one of the very few things making all this waiting bearable.

On rare occasions, he is the one seeking her out, and the way she smiles when he does is not unwelcome. They take long walks around the lake, and he tells her. She listens to his stories with the same level of rapt attention he used to get from everyone, long ago. She tells him stories of her own, noticing his lack of interest in her time spent with the Dalish and changing the subject to her time spent in the company of alchemists, which he almost finds fascinating.

Amongst the peace and quiet of the snow, Solas shows Kilastra spells that are innocent enough but that she has never seen before. He tells her that he has found this knowledge in the Fade, and she never questions it. She learns, her thirst for knowledge overlooking everything else.

Kilastra is more skilled than he has given her credit for, and it is also not an unwelcome surprise. She is a witty companion, for a human, and there is a kindness in her that he does not remember encountering in the physical world since his return. The way that kindness turns to steel when she discusses the plight of mages is also welcome. She is passionate about freedom, as well as about researching magic. She wants to understand the relation between the Fade and magic in order to better wield it. There is something there, something that almost appeals.

One day, when she has returned from an expedition to Val Royeaux that Solas did not join, he seeks her out. He has spent time procuring a selection of books for her and they had arrived in her absence. He has never been patient, and he refuses to question his motivation. He wishes for her to have them, and that is enough.

Solas hears her laughter before he sees her, but it is not what halts his steps. Kilastra is talking to the commander while watching drills, and he must have somehow said something infinitely amusing. Solas has no recollection of Kilastra having even mentioned this man’s name before in a casual context, but he is leaning very close and absentmindedly rubbing the back of his neck and Solas sees it written all over him, plain as the entire human race.

Kilastra does not see Solas as he walks away. The books remain in his cabin until they are consumed by fire, months later.


	2. Vulnerability

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set right after the fall of Haven, covering the arrival at Skyhold, the aftermath of Solas' personal quest, and the Fade Dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starring a lot of introspection and some freestyling on canon events.

Silence falls suddenly over the mountains as they flee Haven. Solas’ ears are ringing, an odd sort of disquiet curling in his chest, making it hard to keep a clear head. 

The mood is sombre as they make camp, the war council futilely trying to organise the chaos. Solas walks away from the group, seeking the shadow of the mountains. There is much to plan but all he can think about is the final conversation he had with Kilastra, mere hours ago. She stopped by to ask him to the festivities, looking almost impossibly beautiful. There were snowflakes in her messy hair and her cheeks were red and Solas was angry with her for not realising that he’d been avoiding her for weeks. He threw his words at her like weapons, latching on to her comments and twisting them to suit his purposes. He accused her of typical human arrogance and her expression faltered before it turned to stone. She walked away and he watched as she did and none of it felt like a victory. And then he turned while fleeing Haven and saw the mountain fall over her. She is gone.

There is a tremor in his hands that feels foreign. It has nothing to do with the cold, though he hates to admit it. She is gone and he has spent the last few months running from her, refusing to even look her way for fear of a flicker of expression betraying him. She was travelling most of that time, which made it all easier. Now, in the heavy silence that trails destruction, he adds this to the long list of his regrets.

Her absence complicates things even more than her presence did. Solas has so many loose threads to deal with but the lack of her weighs heavy. She was only a human, completely insignificant. He should never have spent so much time and effort on her.

The frozen wind carries the barked orders of the commander to him. His voice is quavering and Solas is filled with disdain at the sound of it. It is impossible for humans to hide their weaknesses. It always has been. There will be no witnesses to the tremor in his own hands, as it should be. The feeling informing it is an aberration anyway.

He stands there, not thinking about Kilastra Trevelyan, until he hears a shout in the distance and commotion following it. The first sight he encounters when he makes it back to the improvised camp is Kilastra, unconscious but alive in the commander’s arms as he carries her to the tent where the apothecary is treating the injured.

Solas spends no time on identifying the unwelcome rush of emotion blooming in his chest. It is a distraction, nothing more. He stands just outside the light that pours out of the tent as they all fawn over her in a frenzy of movement and noise. He twirls the staff slowly in his hands and doesn’t think. He waits.

The relief of the war council soon turns to frustration that does nothing to hide the fear underneath. Solas watches the spectacle until he hears her voice giving shape to his name. His hands are as still as ever when he walks over to her.

Kilastra is pale, shivering despite the blankets piled on her. Her eyes are as bright as ever and he doesn’t know what to say under the scrutiny. All he can do is compose his expression enough to keep her as far away from seeing him as possible.

‘That was quite an evening,’ she says, and her voice is broken. Solas doesn’t know if it’s due to the cold or if she screamed for help that wouldn’t come. It makes him uncomfortable for reasons he refuses to articulate.

‘Indeed it was,’ he replies, keeping his tone neutral. Their last conversation in Haven hangs between them with the weight of mountains.

Something in her expression falters for a moment as she looks at him, and the tiredness written all over her bears the blame of the smile he gives her. ‘I am glad you are here, Herald,’ he says, hoping she’ll forget the words by morning. The way she smiles at him in return assures him that she will not.

Later, he watches from the shadows as her people rally around her. Kilastra is a symbol and she embodies it now, having escaped certain death. She is a figure to be worshipped. Observing her has now become even more interesting.

As she walks through the camp with halting steps, her eyes drift towards him. Before Solas realises that he has made a decision he finds himself in the midst of telling her about the Orb. He twists a tale for her and watches her throughout. Something dangerous inside him wants to tell her the truth so he approximates. Something in her eyes calls to him, but all he sees is the humanity of her, the Dalish braid adding insult to injury. The feeling remains, however.

There is nothing official between the commander and Kilastra. Solas knows that nothing has happened. As he looks at her, on this night when dawn seems so unreachable, on this night that almost claimed her, he decides to allow himself a lapse in reason. He will make his interest known and see what happens.

He begins by giving her Tarasyl'an Te'las: Skyhold.

*

After the Exalted Plains, all Solas wants is to stay with Kilastra. He runs instead, disappears for two weeks. He detaches from it all, particularly from the unwelcome chaos of his emotions. He has too much to do and she makes him feel too much like the past version of himself. It is far too dangerous.

When he returns to her fortress, Kilastra is waiting in the courtyard, like she’s been expecting him. The raven flying overhead suggests she might have been informed of his arrival rather than just acting on instinct, but it makes him pause anyway.

She looks at him like she can see right through him. It makes his breath catch despite knowing the impossibility of her truly knowing him. She says nothing, but he explains himself anyway. She says nothing, but he promises not to leave her side until the threat is gone. He does not think about what will follow.

After that, normality resumes. Expeditions take place, missions are undertaken, progress is made. At Skyhold, Kilastra frequently finds Solas on the rotunda. She watches him paint, rifles through his papers, asks him for stories. He never sends her away. He never enjoys watching her leave. At times they talk well into the night, hushed tones in the firelight, only the ravens interrupting them.

He sees the commander watching her with those dog eyes and the feeling it leaves tastes like bitter tea on his tongue. Still, she visits Solas more than she visits anyone else. Comments surge like a wave because gossip sustains the Inquisition. She pays the rumours no mind and Solas follows suit. Sometimes, he lets his hand linger over hers when he is showing her a book. Sometimes, she does the same. They speak nothing of it but Solas is assaulted by the vulnerability of feeling. He doesn’t put a stop to it.

One night he sheds even more of his reservations and reaches for her in the Fade. He walks the paths of Haven with her again and her smile means everything even though it shouldn’t.

When he tells her they are in a dream she looks around like she wants to preserve all of it forever and he finds himself wishing he could do that for her.

‘You brought me here because it means a lot to me?’ she asks, and Solas once again feels that she sees far more than she lets on.

He takes a moment to construct his expression into impassivity but by the time he forms the affirmative reply she steals it from him. He shouldn’t be able to feel the warmth of her lips on his. She shouldn’t have been the one to make the move, he shouldn’t have allowed a move in the first place. The thoughts crash into each other with dizzying speed in his mind and then disappear when he kisses her back. It is not supposed to happen, but this is a dream. He is allowed freedom in a dream.

When he wakes up, he touches his lips with his fingertips, chasing the lingering feeling of her. This is yet another complication, one he has just lost control over. It feels exhilarating.


	3. Fissure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some further canon tweaks here featuring a very slight honeymoon phase and ending with the waterfall cave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feels are spilling all over the place.

The Inquisitor spends the next few weeks at Skyhold. The weather has turned to icy fury and only the most necessary expeditions are carried out in the midst of it. Routines within the fortress continue as usual. The only difference is that the rumours have now become deafening. There are whispers in every corner, from the guards patrolling the battlements to the Orlesian nobles in the grand hall. 

There is no formality to their dalliance. Kilastra says nothing, and Solas sees no flaws in following her lead on this. All is as normal. They spend time together on the rotunda while Solas paints. Kilastra continues to sit on his divan and read his books and listen to him talk. It is perfectly normal. 

The façade slips at very random intervals. Kilastra laughs at something he says and Solas looks upwards at the rookery, aware of Leliana's presence. When Kilastra brushes paint off his cheekbone the warmth of her hands doesn't distract Solas from noticing Dorian leaning over the railing and smirking at the sight of them. 

Solas is used to the whispers and the glances. They are unsurprising and expected. The rest, he finds, is far less straightforward. They dance around each other in intricate and complex ways while disclosing nothing to others, and little to each other. 

In the evenings, when the silence that falls over Skyhold is only interrupted by the howling of the freezing wind, there are no glances and no whispers. There is only Solas, aware of his lack of control in the moments that he steals and dedicates only to her. There is only Kilastra, looking at him like she sees all of him, and Solas foolishly allows himself to believe the fantasy of it. 

In the anonymous silence, Kilastra kisses him, and he kisses her. More often than not she has paint or ink on her skin from his hands and his own greed in touching her surprises him. Everything about this surprises him. He should not be responding to her visceral humanity with his own weaknesses, but he can’t stop himself. She’s so real and so alive and he’s never felt this rush of sensation before, or if he has it happened too long ago to be remembered.  
Her laughter is soft when it’s just the two of them, like it’s a secret, a gift. She kisses him like she knows exactly how much he wants her, and he doesn’t bother lying. Not about that, at least.

In the snowstorm, time ceases to exist. He covers the walls in vivid colours that tell his own story. He wants her to see, wants her to bear witness to the truth, even though she cannot know what is being exposed. Kilastra watches him work with an intensity she usually reserves for books. Solas doesn't admit to it, but her gaze makes him falter at times, makes heat rise in his cheeks. He'd be angry at himself any other time, but for now he is intoxicated by being around her. His plans and his agents are demanding his attention but all of it is focused on her, like he's some lovesick mortal. 

The snow ends up enveloping Skyhold and cutting it off from the rest of the world for a few days. Solas thinks about the eluvian network growing quiet and the Veil disrupting everything and feels no shame about ignoring all of it. He feels remarkably little shame in general. He's far too taken with that look in her eyes, with the way her mouth looks after he kisses her. 

Kilastra asks about the scenes he paints as she watches them recover a life they've lost. He brushes his fingers through her hair and traces the delicate intricacy of the Dalish braid as he tells her stories that remain carefully vague. The stories are different from what she's been told by the Dalish, of course, but Solas doesn't feel the usual burst of annoyance that knowledge brings with it. Kilastra listens, and asks questions, and trusts him to offer her perspective. It's only in those moments that shame blooms. She believes in him, and he is living up to what the Dalish have woven into his reputation. He is deceiving her. 

On some evenings, Kilastra walks onto the rotunda with snow in her hair and red cheeks, her hands cold and laughter spilling from her. Solas leaves what he was doing aside and whispers warmth along her palms with his lips. They kiss for hours when there is no one to see, and Solas feels a hunger that matches hers, and his hands roam like hers, his need as apparent as hers. In this, at least, he has some control. He does not lose himself entirely. It would be a step too far, a dishonesty veering even further into the unforgivable. In truth, he should not be touching her at all, but the way she looks at him makes him feel as powerful as he used to be, long ago. Sometimes she falls asleep in his arms and he watches firelight catch the golden highlights in her hair and allows himself to think for the briefest of moments that he could be content with being only the man Kilastra believes him to be and nothing more. It is not the truth, of course, but in moments like these, when he stands watch over her dreams, he wishes for his own truth to be rewritten. 

On one such night, Solas is holding Kilastra as she sleeps, a blanket draped messily over them. There is no sound other than her breathing, no movement other than the combined rise and fall of their chests. Solas is kept awake by all the things she cannot know, but when she breaks the stillness by stirring awake, everything else becomes insignificant. She presses her lips to his chin, the corner of his mouth, his cheekbone, and she smiles in that way of hers that makes his breath stutter. She says ‘I want it to be like this forever’ and it is not a whisper. It is loud and clear and true and Solas presses his forehead to hers and wishes for time to truly break.  
The next day, sunlight gives the snow a pale rose hue that makes everything seem otherworldly. Solas stands on the bridge and watches as the roads become accessible again, merchants starting to arrive once more with supplies that have been dwindling. He knows what he must do now that time has recovered its normal pace. If his hands are shaking at the thought of what is to come, he doesn’t notice.

Despite his decision, Solas stalls for time until it is impossible to do so any longer. He opts for familiarity and reaches for Kilastra in the Fade again, beckoning her to him. He waits by the waterfall and falters when he sees her, the smile on her face, the way the corners of her eyes crinkle when she sees him. She believes him. He must stop this, but she kisses him before he can, warm and alive and consuming and he gets lost in it until he opens his eyes and sees the love in hers.

‘I am sorry. I distracted you from your duty. It will never happen again,’ he says, moving away from her and not looking at the way her expression pauses only to shatter a moment later.

She reaches for him and he flinches away, calls her ‘vhenan’ even though he knows she knows what the term means. He is a coward, and he is out of control, and he must end this.

‘In another world,’ he says, and his voice almost cracks like hers does when she pleads with him to stay, when she says she wants to be with him, just like this, like it could have ever made a difference, like it could have ever stopped time or destiny. She keeps reaching for him because right now she is brave and he is weak and he wants to tell her that all he longs for is to rupture this dimension and make a home for her in a new one, a home that they can share. He doesn’t say it because it is foolish sentimentality, because he has shown her far too much.

Instead, he says sorry, turns his back to her, and leaves her behind. In the waking world, time continues its destruction.


	4. Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas stops searching for her, and the traces of her disappear. He will only speak to her again in the waking world when he is fully in control of himself. As the siege of Adamant looms, he prepares to accompany her. He must remind her of his usefulness before she departs. He must prove himself a friend to her and shed all else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some liberties have been taken with canon, as per usual.

Solas leaves Skyhold once more, in the dead of night. Ravens follow him for most of the journey, but they scatter when he bids them leave. The forest is dark but he sees all and he keeps walking until he is absolutely sure that no eyes remain focused on him. He pulls the hood of the cloak over his face to further obscure himself from view as the sounds of the forest pause around him, the wildlife examining this threat in their midst. Solas can hear only his thoughts, only his barely-there footsteps as he advances with certainty through the darkness.

Solas' agents have been running amok in the wake of his lack of attention, and he is determined to repair the tattered threads of his network. His past distraction is unforgivable, but he is now more determined than ever to follow the only true path that lies ahead of him. He remains keenly aware of Felassan's absence. No other agent has shown quite the same potential and a replacement has become more than necessary. Solas must spend less time on the Inquisition and more time on recruitment. He has been sloppy in a way he cannot afford and it has cost him, but he is certain that somewhere in this broken mess of a world there is a mind bright enough for his needs. 

Moonlight breaks through the overcast sky and threads itself through pine needles, illuminating the path ahead. He is strongly reminded of the way firelight caught the highlights in Kilastra’s hair, and he missteps, a fallen twig fracturing under his foot, ringing out through the forest. It is sloppy and careless and he curses himself for it. He has always been aware of her insignificance. The fact that he lost track of that knowledge for a while changes nothing. 

Solas meets two of his agents in the heart of the forest. They are meant to relay the fragments of information and guidance he gives them to others further along the network. He doesn't frequently have face to face meetings, but he feels that reminders of his presence (and his ever-growing power) are needed, especially of late. Solas observes the agents from under the hood of his cloak. He knows everything about them, from their names to what drives them, but he does not sense the strength he seeks. They are enough at the moment but they are mere pawns in this war, limited by their own lack. He will have to manoeuvre a search soon, far away from the eyes of ravens and scouts and the Inquisitor herself. For now, in the all-encompassing darkness, this is all he has. It will have to be enough.

*

When he returns to Skyhold, the spymaster is watching him from the rookery. Solas knows that she thinks herself impossible to read, but he is fully aware of what she thinks about him. He is a necessary asset to the Inquisition, and not to be trusted. She is very right about that. He knows that she is now even warier of him than before - his dalliance with Kilastra would have seemed like something to profit from, but now he is once more untethered, once more an unknown.

Solas wonders about the conversations the spymaster has with Kilastra, feeding the Inquisitor half-truths and hoarding all the knowledge until it suits her. Leliana is capable enough, at least for a human, but her devotion has been entirely given away, blindly misplaced. Worst of all, she believes to know everything better than everyone else. It will be her downfall. Her instincts are right when it comes to him, but her own limitations prevent her from seeing the magnitude of the truth, which suits Solas.

He aims a polite smile at her and returns to his work, writing notes in code right under her nose. It would feel like triumph, but he hears Kilastra’s voice outside and feels all too aware of both her presence within the fortress and her absence at his side. They have not exchanged a word in the weeks since Solas left her next to the waterfall in the Fade. The rumours are as loud as ever, but they have shifted once more. Everyone within Skyhold looks at Solas like they know him and he wants to show them how very wrong they are, but it is not yet time. For now, as the firewood crackles, he concocts the lines of future strategies until everything else blurs into background noise. It almost seems like enough.

*

The other companions keep their distance, following Kilastra’s example. Solas remains at Skyhold while the Inquisitor takes her retinue deep to a ritual tower deep within the Western Approach. Skyhold is in a state of distraction, tension brewing, and Solas takes full advantage of his free time to repair the weaknesses in his network. The most capable agents he currently has are sent on a mission to investigate further recruiting options while the others are on the trail of the Venatori, gleaning information about the Orb’s location. The spymaster notices nothing, trapped in meeting after meeting with the ambassador and the commander, who looks like he’s fraying at the seams. Solas does not look at him often.

News of the Inquisitor’s confrontation with a Venatori magister trickle into Skyhold in the days prior to her return, and Solas feels an echo of the anticipation building within the fortress. When Kilastra crosses the bridge, Solas allows herself to watch her progress from the battlements, unseen in the shadows following sunset. He tells himself she is yet another pawn and he must make sure that she remains alive and uninjured while he needs her. It almost feels like the truth.

Solas watches as the commander of the Inquisition’s forces almost trips over himself in his haste to reach Kilastra, reaching out a hand to her and helping her off her mount. He watches as Kilastra’s expression softens at the sight of him. Solas can almost hear the swell of restored rumours spreading through the great hall. He knows that there is nothing between them, not yet, but he also knows it is only a matter of time. While Solas was away, the commander was at Kilastra’s side, seeking her attention. It was always going to happen. Solas watches as Kilastra laughs at something Cullen says, the tiredness on her face disappearing. He watches as they walk side by side until they disappear from sight, and the fortress that he’s given her as a gift whispers around him, reacting to what he feels, until he stops the noise and returns to his desk. He is in control. All is going according to plan.

*

When Solas walks through the Fade, echoes of Kilastra find him. He cannot make them disappear, despite his overwhelming need to shatter them. They remain, loud and clear and vivid, and Solas does not admit to missing her. He misses having a decent conversation counterpart, at most. It used to be thrilling, her hunger for knowledge, her constant questions and her avid curiosity. He misses having someone to tell about his travels through the Fade, even though he could never be truly earnest with her. The glimmers of truth in his words were well hidden, but the way she was so drawn to them was intoxicating. He wants to tell her more, wants her to see more than she can. He wants her to look at him. He will allow nothing more, but he finds himself wishing for the illusion of friendship, at least for now. If he continues showing her some of his world, perhaps one day she might understand the actions he will have to undertake. 

He wanders the Fade aimlessly, searching for the sound of her laughter, for that look on her face. When he wakes, he longs to be back in his land of dreams and the weakness of it all makes his hands shake with anger and with the momentarily uncontrolled strength of his magic. 

Solas stops searching for her, and the traces of her disappear. He will only speak to her again in the waking world when he is fully in control of himself. As the siege of Adamant looms, he prepares to accompany her. He must remind her of his usefulness before she departs. He must prove himself a friend to her and shed all else.

In the darkness before dawn, he locks up the memory of her lips and walks away from it.


	5. Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His thoughts are loud enough, flitting around his mind in dizzying circles. He ends up sketching nonsensical lines that have no distinct shape until he realises that the contours of her face are emerging from the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I managed to somehow forget (thx world) to post chapter four so today is your 2 in 1 day <3  
> Liberties with canon have been taken once more.

Silence weaves itself through the Inquisitor’s retinue on the return trip from Adamant. Kilastra is leading the group, as usual, but she’s riding far ahead, the distance signalling her need to remain alone. Solas has been spending most of his time walking alongside the supply cart, wind scratching the sand of the Approach along his skin. Like Kilastra, he has much to mull over, but he finds himself unable to focus. Instead he watches the dust left in her wake and thinks about the look on her face throughout their journey through the Fade.

At first, he’d been impressed at her quick thinking, at how the Veil opened for her. At first, he’d been excited about being back there with her, about showing her more paths in its labyrinthine infinity, but it took one look from her to shatter that. He felt the magnitude of being back in this place that witnessed them with so much distance that has been amalgamating between them since. He looked at her, and then he took the lead into her nightmare, into her memories, the Fade conspiring against her in a way he could not allow himself to influence.

Solas believes that she is struggling, like he is, with the knowledge that she fully stumbled into this role, an accident, a coincidence. It feels meaningless and rather common that something that had such an effect on his life could have as easily never happened. Only a matter of moments would have rendered her as insignificant as she should always have stayed, Solas’ plans would have gone as expected, undisturbed by a human’s life-altering timing. It is almost funny in a way, and almost tragic in another.

On the fourth day crossing the Approach, Cullen rides to Kilastra’s side, a bold and brazen move. Solas watches with interest, far behind, hoping for her to reject his company, but then Kilastra slows her pace to a steady trot that matches Cullen’s mount. He hears her laughter on the wind, clear and unburdened, and his steps falter, but only for a moment. He looks away after that, distracting himself with plotting the next move in his ongoing chess game with the Iron Bull. He refuses to think of anything else until Kilastra and Cullen’s horses blend with the horizon line, falling into invisibility.

The silence stretches over the camps during nighttime too. Solas spends much of his time at the furthest edge of the firelight, away from the others. The usual laughter and boisterous banter is absent, but Solas finds it all rather comforting. His thoughts are loud enough, flitting around his mind in dizzying circles. He ends up sketching nonsensical lines that have no distinct shape until he realises that the contours of her face are emerging from the shadows.

Before Kilastra left for Adamant, Solas approached her, insisting on his usefulness in the upcoming campaign. There was reticence written all over Kilastra as she listened to him, too much left unsaid between them, but then she accepted, even gifting him a flicker of a smile. On the road to the fortress, Kilastra sought his advice several times, the space between them thawing slightly with the memory of their past conversations. She kept her distance still, not quite friendly, not even in the Fade, where she’d looked to him for guidance.

In the firelight, Solas sketches her likeness, stealing glances to where Kilastra is dining with her friends, Cullen at her side, a trusted advisor, the source of fresh rumours, but not yet anything official. It won’t be long now, if the way Kilastra leans towards him when he speaks is any indication. Solas’ lines lack their usual grace as he watches, unseen, Kilastra’s hand touching Cullen’s elbow when she laughs, Cullen’s cheeks flushing at the gesture. It’s all such an overtly human display that Solas feels slightly nauseated. It doesn’t seem like anyone else notices the shadows under Kilastra’s eyes, the flicker of a wince in the corner of her mouth whenever someone calls her by her title. That is only for Solas to see, it seems, and he cannot address it. He will not.

He spends his evenings sketching her by firelight, different poses and different details. He sketches her in the Fade and in Skyhold, the places that are most his, the places he showed her. He sketches her in the cave where he left her behind, regret bitter on his tongue. At times, when the firelight dims, when the wind chills his hands, he wishes to go back in time and stop himself. He could have had more time with her, not much but enough to prevent all these unbidden emotions at war inside him. He could have stayed with her until the defeat of Corypheus, which is still unreachable. Cullen could have been the one watching from the shadows, pining for her. It is much more fitting for a human to do something like this.

Kilastra checks in with him a few times, but never alone, walking by him and exchanging words that lack depth. She barely looks at him, and Solas wonders if it’s more to do with their dalliance or more to do with what took place in the Fade, no other witnesses present but the two of them, the other survivor long since gone. Solas can see the weight of Kilastra’s decision weighing her down, and it’s enough of an indication for him to know that she has talked of it to no one. He wishes he could tell her that she can trust him to listen to her, but he cannot do that with this distance still between them as they sit on cliff’s edges separated by an abyss.

One evening he sketches her hand and then adds his own, tangling with hers. By dawn, all the sketches have turned into ash.

*

Back at Skyhold, Solas retreats into his paintings once more, colours staining his hands. He continues to send messages to his agents right under the Spymaster’s nose, and he doesn’t keep track of how many times Kilastra visits Cullen’s office after her official meetings are done. He tells himself he doesn’t, at least.

One afternoon, he is far too focused on his work, the colour of her hair on his brush. He doesn’t hear her walk towards him until she says his name, a bittersweet sound that hangs between them like a memory.

Kilastra is holding one of his books in her hands, the cover absorbing the warmth of her palms. She looks at him with a great deal of uncertainty as Solas cleans his hands, gesturing at her to sit at his desk. She’s acting like she’s never been here before and it’s an almost cruel gesture, erasing all the moments of shared togetherness.

‘I came to bring you back this,’ she says, still holding on to the book. Solas never expected it back, but he doesn’t remind her that it was a gift because he doesn’t trust himself to keep the bite from his words. If she wants to get rid of all traces of him from her life, that is her right, but she doesn’t have to make it all so very uncomfortable. Solas has to remind himself that her friendship is enough. He must remain gracious. He must not look at her mouth and remember.

‘I thank you, Inquisitor,’ he says, when he is sure that his voice will not betray him. He waves a hand over his desk and Kilastra adds the book to the pile he’s been working on, next to the sketchbook that holds no memory of her.

Kilastra is holding her own hands now like they pain her, covering the anchor, but Solas can see it bursting into life. He can also see the look on Kilastra’s face. She’s worried. It is intriguing.

‘The book’s not the only reason I’m here,’ Kilastra admits, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. Solas sits in his chair and waits for her to continue, her gaze focusing on the progress of his art before travelling back to him.

‘The anchor has been more unpredictable since…Adamant. It hurts at times, and it wakes me up at night, coming alive without a reason. I don’t know how to control it. I was wondering if you might have heard of something, maybe in your travels through the Fade, maybe in books. Anything at all would help.’

Solas watches her for a moment, thinking about the implications of her words. He expected something like this to happen, of course, but not quite this soon. The anchor was always going to turn against her, but this is starting a countdown that Solas has not yet fully taken into account. It is far too early, still. He must intervene, he must slow down the progress, but he can’t give anything away. He hopes that her tiredness will keep her from seeing his bluff.

‘There is something we can attempt,’ he says and Kilastra’s immediate interest makes him feel more optimistic. She won’t ask too many questions. She just wants a solution.

Solas flicks through the pages of the book next to him, for effect only, her expression so attentive it feels slightly intoxicating. It feels like it used to, back when she used to sit on his desk, listening to his stories. He shakes the memory off and doesn’t acknowledge how lovely she looks with her hair down.

‘It’s a very old form of magic, rather obscure, but it’s meant to slow down the ill effects of certain spells,’ Solas says, and the hope in Kilastra’s eyes makes a drop of truth spill from him. ‘ Inquisitor, you must know that this is only temporary.’

She bites her lip then, and it offers a distraction from the serious look on her face.

‘Anything would be helpful,’ Kilastra states, determination written all over her. Her strength manages to surprise him, sometimes.

‘Then may I?’ Solas asks, his hand stretched towards hers, closer to touching her skin than he has been in months.

When she nods, he presses his fingertips to her wrist and hopes that her magic cannot sense the unusual strength of his when he lets some of it flow into her, appeasing the foreign mark that is slowly poisoning her. One day, a definitive solution will become unavoidable, but it will not happen before he is ready for it.

He can feel her pulse, quick and steady. He can hear the rhythm of her breathing as she watches him, trusting him enough to allow him to help her. Solas feels the weight of everything he is hiding from her bearing down on his temples.

‘Kilastra,’ he says, without meaning to, and there is too much in his voice, in the way he says her name. She looks at him but her expression becomes unreadable again, distant, and he stops touching her, the temporary treatment in place.

‘Thank you, Solas,’ she says, her words hollow once more. She leaves the door to the rotunda open as she walks across the bridge to Cullen’s tower.


	6. Corpus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas tries to focus on his goal, on the memory of the past leading him away from the lack of satisfaction in the present. He is used to frustration, used to loss, used to being surrounded by mediocrity. Restlessness and frustration are a dangerous combination when they go to war together under his skin. Solas has always known this. The combination makes him crave chaos and destruction. It makes him want to tear something apart just to see what would happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word of warning: this chapter has a Mature rating and involves a NSFW solo scene halfway through. Solas is not dealing well with much at the moment.

During most of the long nights he spends trapped in Skyhold, the chaos in Solas' thoughts is deafeningly loud in the stillness of his surroundings. There is an offensive quality to those thoughts, to the feelings they coax to the surface. It all carries the stench of humanity, and Solas wishes to be rid of it but powerless to achieve calm. Frustration makes his hands restless and his mind scattered. He takes frequent walks, both within and without the fortress. Only the essential pairs of eyes follow his steps now that he has become far less interesting in the eyes of the Inquisition.

The Inquisitor has taken great pains in clinging to a semblance of privacy in her new affair with Cullen, but Skyhold’s inhabitants see everything regardless of its official status, and so does Solas. The other day, Kilastra allowed her palm to brush over Cullen’s in the great hall for only a fleeting second, and everyone else pretended that the secret was kept, but the murmurs continued, as they always do. The sight made Solas seriously consider leaving empty-handed for a moment too long, a petulant thought since buried. He doesn't have time to dwell on how he feels, especially as he shouldn't be feeling much of anything. He must follow his path and all distractions have been eliminated. Solas knows that he should be clear-headed, knows that many worthier obstacles lie ahead, but he remains distracted and out of sorts.

He continues to take the usual precautions in his infrequent meetings with his agents. They bring him little information that he can use, but the connections he has embedded within the Orlesian court are proving ever more useful. Solas can see the web unfolding ever more clearly, each step becoming reality, little by little. With each moment that passes, he is getting closer. When he sees his reflection, he sees what he has sacrificed. He hears Mythal’s voice and remembers the way he used to look, back then, the way he used to feel. 

Solas tries to focus on his goal, on the memory of the past leading him away from the lack of satisfaction in the present. He is used to frustration, used to loss, used to being surrounded by mediocrity. Restlessness and frustration are a dangerous combination when they go to war together under his skin. Solas has always known this. The combination makes him crave chaos and destruction. It makes him want to tear something apart just to see what would happen.

Kilastra does not visit him by herself again but remains inescapable. She is omnipresent, always on the periphery of Solas’ sight, and it makes him want to watch the fortress he’s given her go up in flames. She always crosses his office to head over to Cullen’s tower from her visits with Leliana, and Solas can only grit his teeth and bear the humiliation of stooping low enough to feel slighted by someone like Kilastra Trevelyan. He desires her attention and hates her for it. 

When she walks by him, she only acknowledges him enough to be polite. From his observations, it doesn’t seem like the mark has given her further trouble, but wariness hides in the downturned corner of her mouth whenever she looks at her own hand. She is right to be on her guard. It won’t be long until it gets worse again, and by then Solas will be long gone. He told her it would be temporary and she will have to deal with that knowledge. The thought gives Solas no satisfaction.

Kilastra favours one of the few subtle scents produced in Orlais. The scent always clings to the air every time she walks by. On this particular evening, Kilastra descends the stairs from the rookery late, casting shadows across Solas’ painted walls in the torchlight. Solas does his best to seem engrossed in his reading as they mutter exchanges to each other. He pretends not to notice how lovely she looks, her hair dishevelled after a long day, her cheeks and mouth rosy. Solas remembers the way the perfume tasted on her skin and grips the desk until she is out of sight. 

Once she has crossed the bridge to the tower, Solas walks in her footsteps and opens the door for the mountain wind to rush through the rotunda and clear the air of her scent and the memories that go with it. The fortress has fallen quiet again in that way that should give him peace but doesn’t. The library above him is now empty, as is the rookery, and there is only the usual sound of guards on patrol and little else. Solas stares ahead of him at the light shining in Cullen’s office and refuses to listen to his thoughts but they overwhelm him like a constant wave anyway.

He remembers the softness of Kilastra’s skin, the little noises she made when he kissed her. No one will ever kiss her like that again, especially not her fool of a commander, but she doesn’t know that and it doesn’t feel like victory. He remembers kissing her for hours, holding her, his hands learning her while she learned him. He remembers clinging to his control but the desire remained. The desire remains.

It is such a ridiculous notion, thinking of her, of the warmth of her, of the taste of her. His cheeks are burning and the chill in the wind does nothing to hide his weakness. The door to Cullen’s office opens and her laughter pours out, familiar like sunlight and captivating like a spell. Solas considers quickly backing away, out of sight, but they don’t notice him as they walk out onto the battlements, holding onto each other. Cullen keeps looking around them to make sure that they are not see by the guards, but it doesn’t take him long to be lost in her. Kilastra pulls him slightly more into the shadows, sensing his unease, and Solas feels his powers twist and flare, seeking outlets he will not allow them.

Watching this is foolish and beneath him, but Solas cannot bring himself to look away as Kilastra kisses Cullen like she used to kiss him. Solas remembers the way it felt so vividly it’s almost like she’s kissing him, almost like her hands are pressed to his face. She kisses Cullen’s jawline and then his neck and Solas’ skin remembers her lips, remembers her touch as her hands slip under Cullen’s shirt. It is a wanton display and Solas should find it pathetic but all he can think about is how much he wants her. That in itself is laughable. He could have anyone, but his mind and his body are clamouring for her, for the inconsequential Kilastra Trevelyan, the woman who dared to move on from him.

The guards on patrol exchange some words that ring out over the battlements and that’s more than enough to make Cullen lead the way back into the tower, away from prying eyes. Kilastra is laughing again and Solas can see their shadows through the window into the office so he keeps watching, like he’s lost his mind entirely. He stands there until the wind carries the sounds she makes over to him. She’s not even attempting to stifle them anymore, not even attempting to mask what is happening and Solas wonders if she knows he is out here, listening to her, craving her. The guards are out of earshot now but Solas is not, and he hears everything, he hears too much.

It takes the moan that sounds like Cullen’s name to make Solas move. He slams several doors on his way to the small bedroom he has claimed for himself near his office. He locks the door behind him and rests his arms on the dresser, staring incredulously at his reflection in the small mirror there, watching himself as he struggles to catch his breath like a weakling.

His mind supplies him with images of her both from memory and from fantasy, the flush of her cheeks and her bitten lips and her voice breaking around the shape of his name and no one else’s. Solas thinks of the mess of her hair as she’d thrash in his grip, as he’d make her scream with a pleasure she will now never experience. He thinks of how her skin would bloom with colour as he’d trace paths down her body with his lips, with his hands. He thinks of what she’d look like, open-mouthed and glassy-eyed and so lost in the way he’d make her feel. He thinks of his hands on her hips and her hands clinging to his shoulders. He thinks of the warmth of her, the sweet salt of her skin, the way she’d move against him, the way he’d move inside her.

By the time Solas realises that he’s touching himself, it’s too late to stop. He’s too immersed in this fantasy of his own making, this fantasy that will never be real. It tastes bitter but he can’t escape its thrall, frustration and need taking over him like he’s nothing more than an animal. He keeps looking at himself in the mirror, keeps imagining her splayed in front of him, underneath him, surrounding him. She’d be drunk on him and he wouldn’t be far behind, whispering lovely and filthy things in her ear. He’d take his time until she’d beg and then he’d give her everything and more, so much more than she could ever imagine.

He bends over the dresser, his movements erratic, his face so close to the mirror that his stuttered breath fogs up the surface. His eyelids flutter as he imagines her screaming his name, over and over, loud enough for the entire world to hear the way he makes her feel. He’d bring her pleasure over and over until she’d be exhausted, panting and flushed all over, holding on to him and laughing that glorious laughter of hers. 

His free hand grips onto the edge of the dresser and it is a poor substitute for her, but he closes his eyes and clings to the images of her, to the imagined sounds, and it’s enough. The pleasure is hollow and fury follows in its wake, along with shame. It is not enough. It is humiliating for someone like him to stand slumped over a dresser like an inexperienced lonely whelp. 

He is powerful. He is going to reshape the world, again. In this moment, however, all he has is emptiness and his reflection staring back at him with disdain.


End file.
